Sledding, Sledding And More Sledding

If there was ever a weekend when my goals were met, it was this one.

The boy went to a basketball game at the high school on Friday night, while I put Thing 2 to bed at 7:30.  And then I was in bed myself at 7:53 on that Friday evening.  I told Hubs, “Don’t hate me because I’m in bed already.”  He answered me, from his post at the foot of the bed, where he was wrapped from head to toe in a fluffy, FLUFFY blanket, hanging his head over the bed’s footboard and watching a documentary on DID HITLER REALLY DIE WHEN THE HISTORY BOOKS CLAIM HE DID, and said, “Don’t hate me because I’m tucked into my fuzzy blanket for the night.”

We have become a sad sort of people, but if this is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

On Saturday, I stayed in my pajamas until 1:00 in the afternoon.  Lest you think I was completely slothful, please note that I did two loads of laundry, ran the dishwasher, made all the beds, picked up 32,000 Lego bricks, and dealt with a giant pile of cat barf, in between sitting in the living room, reading a book.  I did eventually put on real clothes and curl my hair up with the hot rollers, because Hubs and I were meeting two other couples for dinner at a local bar and grill.  We ate thick burgers, talked nonstop and laughed our heads off, and let me tell you this:  We were out so late, we nearly shut that bar down on Saturday night.

So, you know, we were totally home by 8:15.

This morning, we went to church in real clothes, and then we came back home, where I put my pajamas back on.  In other words, I spent the entire weekend alternating between my nighttime pajamas and my clean, daytime pajamas.

Hashtag, WeekendGoals.

But, back a couple of weeks ago, we DID wear the real clothes… under the big coats and snowpants… and we went sledding with friends.  When Small Town, USA gets some snow, we like to take advantage of it.  Mostly, I prefer to take advantage of it by turning my gas fireplace on and making another mug of chai tea, but whatever.  Occasionally we have to be civilized socialites and make an appearance in polite society… in jeans and real shirts.

One afternoon, we went sledding with Vivian and her mom.  And by sledding, I mean that Vivian’s sweet mama and I sat on a snowy picnic table at the top of the hill, drinking piping-hot, coffee-flavored-milk, while we tried to keep our rear ends from freezing.  We talked our heads off, solved half of the world’s problems, and had a wonderful time while our little people slid up and down the hill… over and over and over again.

Even though the mamas were a wee bit chilled to their bones, our children were worn out, and THAT was the entire purpose of our sledding excursion.

Come, thou Bedtime… we are ready for you.

A couple of days later, Small Town’s temperatures took a turn for the worse.  The mercury in the local thermometers plummeted straight to the bottom, and struggled to get to the FIVE DEGREES mark.  On top of that, the wind decided to blow.  For those of you from Miami and San Antonio, this is a mathematical equation known as a WINDCHILL.  It’s something we Yankees have.  When the wind is blowing X miles per hour, and the temperature is Y-freezing-degrees, then the FEELS LIKE temperature turns into NEGATIVE SEVEN.

So OF COURSE that was the day my friend Amber texted and said, “Are you up for sledding this afternoon?”

We are not wimps up here in the North.  We can endure FEELS LIKE MINUS SEVEN, and… as it turned out… we endured it for ALMOST AN ENTIRE HOUR!  Now, I could barely push the button on my camera, and we mamas struggled to talk, as our teeth were chattering like crazy, but our little adrenaline junkies were actually HOT and some of them ASKED TO UNZIP THEIR COATS.

Let’s see your kids do that, Miami!

Clearly, it was another day of wearing the children out good and proper, as this was an even bigger hill for them to climb up.

We had a few wipe outs that day, too.

Our children are trained in sledding etiquette to TUCK AND ROLL, and we mamas never even bat an eyeball at their crashes.

Eventually, I had no feeling left in my hands or my face, Amber couldn’t feel any part of her legs past her knees, and Theresa was daydreaming about a cup of coffee big enough to be called a soup bowl, so we rounded up our kids, forced them to all smile for the camera at once, and called it an afternoon.

A few days later, the mercury AND the windchill were back up into the double digits, so we went sledding with Thing 2’s buddy, Evie.  The day was practically a SPRINGTIME day, compared to our last outing with the sleds.

Evie’s mama suggested that we go to the LOOOONG hill, which is also called Mount Wearthemout.  Christmas vacation is not a time to scrimp on physical activity!  For every You Tube video those children had watched on OTHER CHILDREN unwrapping THEIR Christmas gifts and demoing them for a video audience, they had to climb Mount Wearthemout six times.

I should just say right here that Evie is a fashion queen, who gives Princess Kate’s wardrobe choices a run for the money.  Her mother claims that she will go through seven clothing changes each morning, before she decides on an outfit for kindergarten, and lo!  A day on the sledding slopes is NO TIME to dress ugly.  Evie came bedecked in her winter finery.  Meanwhile, Thing 2 simply said, “I’m wearing what my mom made me put on before we left.  If it wasn’t for her, I would’ve shown up here in a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt that was three sizes too big for me… and I’d also be wearing my light-up cowboy boots with socks that came up to my knees.”

I’m fairly certain that Evie quickly caught on to the purpose of Mount Wearthemout, as she lamented the fact that this hill didn’t have a chairlift to take them back to the top.  Her little engine was chanting, “I think I can!  I think I can!  I think I can!” as she kept pulling that sled back uphill.

I won’t lie.  An afternoon spent sledding does a remarkable thing to a child, come bedtime.  All that fresh, cold air and all that uphill hiking are just what the doctor ordered.

Unless, of course, he ordered that you simply spend an entire weekend indoors, in your pajamas.

Happy Sunday, y’all.

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